Give Up the Girl
by began-to-climb
Summary: The Trojan princess touched by a Greek soldier, in love with the man that brought tragedy and hate to her family. [AchillesBriseis, summary inside]
1. Give Up the Girl

**Name: **Give Up the Girl

**Rating: **PG

**Summary: **How can she let herself love him? The man that killed her cousin, yet the same man that held her close in the night. Briseis wars with herself, looking towards the shores of Troy. When the night has grown old and the city sleeps, she sneaks outside the walls and into the tent of Achilles.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own these characters.

**Authors Note: **The quote sampled below is said by Coleman Silk in the film _the Human Stain_. Also, this fic will probably only be a couple chapters long, so don't be waiting for something extravagant.

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_"And what was Achilles so angry about? That Priam and Agamemnon were quarreling over a woman. A young girl. And the delights of sexual capacity. Achilles, the most hypersensitive killing machine in the history of warfare. Achilles, because of his rage of having to give up the girl, isolates himself defiantly outside the very society whose protector he is and whose need of him is enormous. Achilles…has to give up the girl, has to give her back."_

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Briseis stalked through the intricate concrete halls, passing chamber after chamber, ignoring the tapestries and vases of her ancestry. Her head bowed, chin tucked in towards her neck, she curled a stray lock of brunette hair behind her ear and folded her hands together in her lap. All she could hear in the early night was the clanking of her shoes against the floor, the dust lifting in a cloud if she stepped in an accidental pile. It echoed in the still air. She turned left, her ebony eyes concentrated on her feet, and found herself in an open passageway. The passages were lit by torches stationed in the small crevices proportionally apart from one another, the glow of the flames dancing over the tan bricks, the outline of a figure cutting out of it when someone passed.

The palace was alien to her now, the cold wind sweeping shivers down her spine at the feel of emptiness. It felt too large, too sullen, too abandoned. Many of the residents were already asleep, using the needed rest before the war began again, safely content in their beds or arms of their lovers. Briseis no longer felt welcome in this place, the palace she once called her home; now she felt like an outsider, an imposter spying on the Trojans. She could no longer sleep, cold without being wrapped in the arms of a warm body, shaken awake when she didn't hear the voices of the Greek soldiers, her eyes darting around every corner of her dark chamber. Nothing felt more out of place than that he wasn't sleeping beside her.

_Him. _In his tent she had felt safer than she did in her own country, surrounded by guards at every door, protected like the princess she was. Except being with him was like being with the sea; she always had to be cautious for he was unpredictable and the man she knew she should have feared, yet he was warm and the freedom she never knew she needed.

His tent had been nothing but a circus of confusion, her mind and her heart clashing constantly, warring about whether he was using her or if maybe he truly cared for her. She'd chosen the latter and had believed in that, allowing the journey to run smoother. Her palace only brought questions about the warrior, much dwelling in her own self on how to feel on the subject of him. She was screaming and crying, yelling and whispering, in between love and hate. Hate towards the man that murdered her cousin out of revenge for his own related tragedy; love for the same man that held her shuddering form as the nights drew on, slept with her in his protective embrace, and gave her up to save her.

She loved him, she missed him…she wanted to be with him.

The passage opened and the view of the luxurious garden was presented to her. The arched windows molded into thresholds, separate entrances into different sections of the courtyard garden. Briseis skipped further, quickening her pace, then stopped short at the entrance, resting her hand on the frame. She smiled to herself. The garden had always been her pensive mind. When she was troubled, she'd flock to the bench under the cherry blossom tree and let her body drift away. It was the only place she could think, the only place where she was rarely disturbed, and the only place that imprisoned her most intimate fantasies and concerns.

Her eyes roved over the garden, noting how it had flourished in the mid-spring sun since she had last seen it, then found the tree. A black figure sat on the cobblestone seat, its black hair tumbled down to the stone, its hands placed in its lap. Its eyes were black, the chest taking deep breaths. Briseis nearly shied away. Andromache, Hector's widowed wife, sat in the garden, undoubtedly thinking about the week. Briseis watched the woman for a moment. This woman was like her sister and to see her have to bear this, knowing her son would grow up without a father and she would have to continue without the man she loved, broke her heart. She bit her lip and bowed her head.

The man responsible for all the sorrow that had washed over the royal family was her beloved, her savior, Achilles. She'd developed two sides when it came to Hector. She hated both men, one for killing the cousin of the man she loved and the other for killing her cousin. She hated and loved them both, yet she could agree on only one thing.

She had been welcomed back into Troy with open arms, the joyous yell of her other cousin, Paris, resounding over the rest as he happily embraced her. He asked questions, as any worried relative would have, but she had chosen not to answer them. She'd retreated to her bedroom without a word, clutching the shell necklace from Achilles in her hand, and wept herself to sleep. Even then she had missed him, ached for him, but she knew she was confined to this city, to his burden called royalty. Later that night she had been walking around when she heard Paris and her uncle, Priam, discussing her. They were both worried, declared by the tones of their voices, as Paris bombarded his father with questions that had gone unanswered by her. He wanted to know where she was found and what happened to her. Priam told him the story, of finding her with Achilles, and of watching the two part tenderly, unique for such the situation.

Neither knew she was listening. She heard every judgmental word passed, every word about her loyalties.

_Did he hurt you? _Again, she did not answer. He had not hurt her, hadn't done anything, but spark sensations in her body that left her craving for more. All the rumors about him, about his drive to kill, about his taste for blood, about how he cared for no one, were nothing but gossip. Her love affair with the man had shown her that. She asked herself what did she know? He was a Greek; wasn't she to hate him? She couldn't, after the things he had done for her, not after he had rescued her on more than one account. She kept the details of her stay in his tent to herself, locked in her memory, tucked only for her remembrance. She kept the subject under control, especially when it came to Andromache.

_Achilles. _When the name of her husband's murderer surfaced, her face hardened and her muscles clenched. She hated the word, hated the name and hated the man, as she hated them all. Briseis noted this on several incidents and each time the realization that clung to it buried deeper. She couldn't tell Andromache anything but lies now. Everything would have to be fabricated. How could she know that Andromache would forgive her if she told her that she loved Hector's murderer? She told no one, kept it to herself; thus, a part of her was cut from her family. The link had been severed and her heart tore because of it.

She was different now, the Trojan princess touched by a Greek soldier, in love with the man that brought tragedy and hate to her family.

She hadn't truly talked to the widow since she had returned and tonight, seeing her alone in the garden, she knew she should change that. She walked through the garden to Andromache, weaving around the variety of flowers and bushes, following the gravel path that led to the bench. The older woman noticed her just as she crossed the petite bridge. She smiled, but her features still reflected sadness.

"Briseis, what are you doing out? You should be in your room." she asked.

"I couldn't sleep." Briseis answered.

"How could you? After seeing all that you must have seen in that camp…it must have been filthy." Andromache shifted to one side of the bench, offering a seat for the woman. "Here. Sit."

Briseis obliged, tucking her dress underneath her as she sat. She copied Andromache's pose, cradling her hands. She fidgeted, twiddling her thumbs, then looked to the woman beside her. She had circles under her eyes, the pupil's red, and dried tearstains on her cheeks. Her clothing was wrinkled in some places, a product of her death grips to wean herself of thoughts of her late husband's funeral. Briseis pitied her; this was the woman who got hurt the most and unknowingly her family was literally sleeping with the enemy. But Achilles wasn't the enemy, not to her, he was a man born into the life he did not choose. He was forced in the place by the gods, given the curse of bloodshed.

She almost felt as if Hector's blood was on her hands as much as on his. She looked away and searched for a comfortable subject to speak of. "What are you doing out here?"

The woman's lip twitched. "Thinking, I suppose."

"About?"

She hesitated. "This war…how absurd it seems to me now. To know that all of this began because of Helen and Paris."

"But you like Helen?"

"I adore Helen, but…it doesn't seem fair to make the people in the center grieve for another's mistakes."

Briseis pursed her lips. She'd never heard the woman speak in such a manner. She was normally quite convivial and warm to everyone. She'd never seen her switch reactions about someone. Then again, that observation could be turned on her like that at any second. "How's Astyanax?" she inquired, asking of her little cousin.

Andromache sighed woefully, sorrow heard in her breath. She shrugged helplessly. "I almost think sometimes he can tell his father is no longer with us. He cries differently, looks upon me as if he can understand what has happened, that his father was killed in combat. I fear how he'll be when he is older. I fear he'll be like Hector, but more…more something else. More inclined for revenge against the man that murdered Hector. I lay awake thinking about it, who he'll be. I sometimes compare the man with the father and without one." She looked over. "They are so different, Briseis."

Briseis draped an arm over her shoulder comfortingly. "We have no way of determining the future, for the gods change it nearly every day. Astyanax, he'll have his father's spirit, but not in the way you predict. He'll be careful and he'll he forgiving."

"How do you know? He's not even in a year old."

"Because you'll have raised him, have taught him that there are more important objects in life than war and greed. He'll understand, maybe not perfectly. I have no doubt he'll pass into vengeance, but…He'll remember my dear cousin and he'll think what he would do. He will be a fine man, Andromache."

Andromache smiled, chuckling to herself, as Briseis recited this, singing praises. All her doubts washed away momentarily. Then the golden-headed face of the murder evaporated on the surface of her mind. "If I come across that Achilles warrior…" she hissed.

Briseis' hand instinctively grasped the shell necklace around her neck, fondling the smooth edges of the gift, as if the touch would protect the man from the wrath of the widowed mother. Her eyes fell, still tweaking with the jewelry; she missed Andromache's eyes observing her.

She reached out and held the shells in her hand, causing Briseis to shoot up at the detachment. Her attachment to the necklace ran deep, as did the connection to the one who'd given it to her, so much that any tore from it felt like a rip in her heart. Andromache ignored her movements to take it back and examined it. "This is so beautiful. Perfect quality shells, rare. Where did you get this?"

"It was a gift." It was the truth.

Andromache tilted her head. "From who?"

Briseis stared at her for a moment, worried whether she should free the information on the giver. Instead, she gave half the truth. "A Greek." she mumbled. "A soldier."

The woman dropped the necklace instantly as if it had burned her. It clinked against Briseis' delicate neck, scratching her lightly. "Why do you wear it? You shouldn't. If your father or Paris knew—"

"They won't. I'm only letting you know, so please, keep it to yourself."

"You didn't answer me. Why are you wearing this? From a Greek nonetheless." Andromache stood. "They're vile, they bring nothing but destruction for a cause that is now invisible to even me. I have lost my husband and the father to my child—your cousin—and you have the audacity to wear that in this city!"

"I wouldn't be alive if it were not for him." Briseis exclaimed, instantly halting Andromache's rant. "Do not be angry with him. He saved my life more than once and he took care of me. He gave me a safe place to sleep and food to keep me alive. I owe my life to him. So, please, do not judge him on the reputation or the judgement of Agamemnon's greed. He's more than that."

Her audience had stopped and listened intently to her words. She didn't dare look at the older woman. After a minute without speaking, she finally did. She was greeted with knitted eyebrows. She cleared her throat.

"You sound as if you feel more than graciousness for this man. More of feelings than gratitude." Andromache observed slowly.

Briseis gulped. _Oh Apollo, _she thought hopefully, _I cannot tell her the truth. She would hate me. _"I don't know, Andromache. I sometimes believe that I do, that I love him, but I have no way of testing these feelings. How can I be sure if we are forbidden, if I am banned?"

"Right. It's rather poetic: the Trojan princess in love with the Greek soldier." Andromache crossed her arms over her chest. "Who is this soldier?"

Briseis parted her lips to say something, but snapped them shut. She couldn't do it; she just couldn't break her cousin-in-law's heart by one word. It was too cruel. She wanted to protect Achilles solely from Andromache's wrath. She had seen her anger when she had exposed the truth about a necklace, a small parting gift. How angry was she going to get if she told her everything? She wasn't going to risk the chance of Andromache knowing then spreading it to Paris or King Priam and have either one of them go after Achilles. It would kill her.

She kept silent. Andromache nodded, not completely comprehending the young woman's hesitation to spill a simple name, then turned to leave, holding the hem of her robe up slightly. She paused for a moment and glanced back over her shoulder. Briseis held her hand in the other.

"I'll tell you this, Briseis. Love is a very powerful element. It takes the best and worst of us. It should not be handled carelessly. Sometimes it takes the wrong people, even throwing them into something forbidden. If the two lovers are willing to sacrifice everything to be with one another, than their love is true. So, if you love this man," she advised. "Then it would be best for you to be sure. This city has many doors. You just need to find the right one."

Briseis watched after her as she crossed the bridge and descended into the shadows, the echo of her shoes on the floor fleeting behind her. She stayed there for a minute, staring at the empty space, and thought about the meaning of the words. Find the right door, test your feelings, and be sure. Her hand slowly lifted and grasped her necklace loosely in her palm, caressing the sensuality of the man enclosed in the remnants of the beach. She could go to him, be sure that what she thought she felt was real.

She turned her head and looked out over the horizon, pinpointing the microscopic flickers of the flames from the torches on the border of the Greek camp. He was there, possibly thinking about her as she thought of him often. Her heart told her go; she would.

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	2. Romeo & Juliet Rules

**Authors Note: **Siyavash, thanks for appreciating my characterization of Andromache. I think the scariest form of anger is the soft-spoken type, when the person talks very low in tone and doesn't raise their voice. It's creepy if you've ever had it happen to you.

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_Sitting here counting the hours  
waiting for the sun to kiss the sea  
paralyzed by the fragrance of the flowers  
they remind me of you and me_

There's one love in a lifetime  
our two hearts of a kind  
these three reasons you'll be mine  
for three's, five or six ways through  
seven days without you  
seven days without you

-Teddy Geiger, _Seven Days Without You_

All the soldiers of Agamemnon's army were slumbering, sprawled across various acres of the beach, collapsed on soft mounds with their hands tucked underneath their cheeks, the dances of the fire moving across their skin, and in tents with the flaps half-opened. The twelve days Achilles had granted the Trojans for funeral games was a much-needed time for rest, a way to rejuvenate their strength for coming battles. The "immortal" soldier was applauded and cursed for his decision, an equal variety of each. Many knew the end was near and they were preparing to be ready for it.

Guards, their spears stiffly grasped in their hand and balanced on the floorboards, stood on the top of wooden towers, one on each side to overlook for foreigners. They had a fine view of the area, leaving the other towers to their watch, which made it impossible for anyone to creep in. Then again, King Priam had entered undetected; what said she could do the same? Briseis studied the night watchman closely, noted how every few minutes one or two would move and talk to someone, letting a slim gap pass for entrance. She crouched behind a spear stand and waited for the perfect opportunity.

Though the shadows hid her slender form, she tugged the dark blue hood tighter over her head, further vanishing her face from the public. The men weren't moving. She glanced around, feeling that she wasn't far from her desired destination—that it was directly over that small hill—and searched for another route. She considered slinking behind the tents, scurrying from shadow to shadow. This pleased her mind. She cast a last look at the guards and darted off, running for the first tent. She ran feverishly through the darkness offered to her and gradually drew nearer and nearer.

In the back of her mind she knew she had lost her mind, that her sporadic actions were going to land her into trouble like they had. She didn't want to go back to Agamemnon, but she couldn't stay confined to the city walls. She had tasted freedom in the form of a man with golden hair and piercing blue eyes and she twisted to have that freedom again. The intimacy of the relationship caught her off guard every night, how she would wake up and find him just watching her or how they'd lay in the fur bed and speak of other places.

Inside the tent he was a man she didn't expect, a man of respect and firm rules but someone who talked excitedly of his home. She loved to hear him say such things; it was like he was that little boy getting to play in the ocean for the first time. Then outside he was entirely opposite. He killed in war, driving spears into men, maneuvering around the battlefield, as a warlord loved by the gods, the championed man that "fought for no one but himself." Some days it astonished her and some days it frightened her.

Yet that was what made him so intensely interesting. The same sort of interesting that made her sneak out of Troy and run to him, disregarding the Romeo and Juliet rules. She escaped through a secret passage that she stumbled across on her way back to her room and had used the route that led up to the end of the beach to flee. It was long, but she found herself on one side of the camp. Luckily, it was closer to his side.

Her cloak flew open as she ran, licking her heels in the wind, and displayed her dress to anyone who saw her flee. She heard voices. She peaked around a tent, pausing for a minute at the familiar sense of the surroundings, and retracted instantly. There, not ten feet away, a circle of men were slouched around a fire, talking joyously to one another, making carvings for little children back at their homes, goblets of wine at their feet, conflicted by the sand pulling them down. She looked back and examined their faces. Maybe she'd know one of them and that would give her an idea of where in the camp she was.

Looking at them all, she only recognized one. Eudorus, Achilles' long friend and second in command. He laughed as another man told a joke, his light eyes reflecting gold in the fire. Briseis smiled; she'd always liked him. He'd been nice to her.

If Eudorus was in this area, she figured, then she must be close to Achilles. Perhaps that was why it all looked familiar. She straightened, and looked to her right, the place she was headed. There it was, Achilles' circular tent, designed of leather and hide, the construction of tied together poles. The flaps were down. A small smile appeared on her lips. She ignored the butterflies swarming in her stomach, how they scratched at her insides or crawled up her throat. Her heart was beating fast and her lungs were constricting, trapping in breaths. Her legs were heavy and her body trembled.

Without looking for a clear pass, she ran behind the other tent and up the bank to Achilles' housing. Out of the corner of his eye, Eudorus saw a shadow move across the sand. He spared a glance, but saw nothing. He shrugged it off and went back to tending to the fire, tearing off strips of smooth bark and tossing it into the fire. It enhanced.

Briseis halted at the entrance of the tent, knowing that her shadow was likely visible inside, stealing a glance to make sure no one was watching her, and gathered herself. Her body was being electrocuted, unmarked anxiousness striking her blood veins. In two steps she was going to be face to face with him again. The thought made her heart swell. She could clearly see his eyes, his rugged hair and his brawn muscles as he held her in the dark. She drew in a breath and touched the tendrils of leather that acted as a door. She slipped in, ducking slightly, and stopped immediately.

Achilles looked over from his spot on his bed and tentatively lifted, inspecting his visitor. As he eased into a sitting position, placing his feet on the floor, he discarded a white robe on the chair. He noticed the figures head sway as it watched the robe, but ignored it and checked the figure up and down. They wore a dark blue cloak, the hood covering any trace of who it was, hands nervously folded in their lap. He could barely see a sliver of nicer clothing under the cloth.

He sighed, dumping his head in his palm. "If you've come for a fight, friend, you've wasted your time." He sounded exhausted, his voice straining an uncommon pain. Briseis didn't respond or move. "You could at least give me the courtesy of removing your hood so I can see who enters my tent."

Under the hood, Briseis smiled. Gingerly, she drew back the hood, unveiling her angelic face to the man. He rocked backward, his lips parting in surprise. He said her name in questioning, disbelieving the sight before his eyes. Was this a trick? No. She was as beautiful as ever, ribbons of her dark hair framing her face, tumbling over her shoulders. The cuts on the bridge of her nose and the bust on her lip had healed, making her look untouched—like she would have before the war. Achilles was astounded by, just from seeing her, the sweep of emotions that coursed through him. Everything about them came rushing back. The long nights, the passionate kisses, the tears, the farewell as she rode away, the swing of a branding iron as it was hurled in the air…

He stood, examining the possibility closely that she was real, stretching his limits. He took a valiant step forward, closing the space between him and Briseis, and opened his arms barely. He hinted at a smile. Briseis knew what this meant and rushed to him, flinging her arms around his neck in a tight embrace. She felt the tears begin to fill her eyes; she tried to hold them back. He ecstatically enclosed her to him, winding her arms around her small waist. He breathed in. She nuzzled his neck, intaking his scent of sweat and leather.

She drew back and clasped her hands on his neck, her thumbnail grazing his ear, her hands vanishing under his hair. He kept one hand on her waist and cupped her cheek with the other. He drew her lips to his, laying a gentle kiss on her lips, relishing the feel of the velvet again. How he missed the sensation. She ended the kiss and pressed his forehead to hers, closing her eyes. A shiver ran down her body. She squeezed her eyes, a tear leaking down the side of her face.

He thumbed it away. "Are you all right? Are they treating you well?" Briseis nodded, the edges of her lips descent in a frown. She fought it, wanting to give an air of strength. "Why didn't you stay in Troy?" he asked.

"I couldn't. I had to be sure of something." Briseis answered.

"Of what?"

The woman shook her head, vibrating against Achilles, and looked elsewhere. Her eyes caught the robe abandoned on the chair. It was a white, the uniform a priestess wore that declared her loyalty to Apollo. It was hers. She hadn't thought about the clothing at all. It was what she was found in, but when Achilles had gotten her something else, she'd left it in the realization that she could no longer wear it. She'd fallen in love and given herself to a man. It had stayed here.

She wondered why he had it. She questioned him, running her fingers over the scratchy fabric, and listened to him hesitate. He rubbed the back of his neck, face scrunched, and spoke. "I had it around to keep your memory with me. I missed you, I suppose."

Briseis smiled to herself. She kissed him, drawing herself closer to him. "You shall miss me no more. I am with you now."

"Yes, but for how long? Agamemnon will kill you if he finds you. He'll find satisfaction from taking a priestess for his game. You shouldn't be here." Achilles ranted.

Briseis was taken back. He was acting different. Was there something he wasn't telling her? If given the chance, he would scoff on the greedy king, stomp on his bones, and ask Hades to burn the pompous man, yet now he was acting as if he had rule, as if they were to walk on eggshells around the barbarian. She understood being careful so that no one noticed that they were sneaking around, but Achilles despised the man. Why was he acting this way?

She stroked his cheek, fingering a braid of hair, and laid her head on his chest. "I don't want to talk about all that. Let me walk. Over the sand, to the sea, into your arms…where I feel the safety enveloped in your strength. Take me away from the treachery of war, away from the deceit."

She stepped back and found the tie that kept the cloak together pressed against her. She untied it, pulling out the knot, and let it drop to her feet. She stood before him, offering herself, vulnerable in front of his eyes. Long gone were the virginal robes of a priestess for the woman in his room wore a tasteful black dress with red paint dribbled down to the hem in an abstract pattern. The straps that breached her shoulders, holding the material together, were pearls, delicately balanced with her fair skin. She was breath taking, a truly provocative woman that had discovered herself in this chaotic world of war.

She took his hand in hers, linking their fingers, and gazed up at him. "Let us have the peace we've been missing."

Achilles took her in his arms and crashed his lips on hers in a passionate kiss. Seven days of separated wanton need came down on them, succumbing to their desires for one another. Their bodies meshed together as they made love behind enemy lines.

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Briseis sighed contently and rolled over. She tugged the blanket over her leg, feeling a gust of wind, but found there wasn't a tug at the other end. The space around her felt cold and empty, no strong arm keeping her in one position and no warm body behind her. She reached out. Space. She opened one eye, curious, and found that Achilles was not sleeping beside her. His side of the bed was deserted. She sat up, clutching the blanket to her naked chest, and looked around. The tent was dark, the interior corners darker than most. A faint light spilled over the sand, giving only a sliver of comparison to the night.

"Achilles?" she breathed.

"It's nearly dawn." a voice croaked. "You should leave while you can."

Briseis found Achilles standing by the door, a goblet in his hand, without a shirt. He brought it to his lips and sipped. She smiled and stood, bundling the blanket around her exposed form, keeping it loosely tucked. She combed her hand through her disheveled hair as she stalked towards him, head tilted, remembering the night. Her feelings were heightened over the cycle of the moon, confirmed by her heart so she knew they were real. She thought it odd that she had been destined to love a man like him. She had been devoted to Apollo before he had shown up from across the sea, and then he'd stolen her heart. The gods obviously didn't want her to waste her beauty and life on worship of them, but on a man that had hardened by war and tainted by blood. A man that needed love to break down his wall and bring him into emotions.

She didn't linger on it too long, but relished the time she was granted with him. As much as they both wanted it, they knew she couldn't stay in the camp. They would be caught and only Zeus knew the punishment that would be laid on them. Achilles gazed at her as she came up, fitting her slender form against his rougher one, and knew that he couldn't let anything happen to her. His whole existence had switched courses when he'd discovered her in his tent, trapped to a wooden pole, cut and bleeding. She was stubborn, as most royalties were, but a fondness for her grew on him in one night. Agamemnon had taken her from him and he'd refused to fight for the brute. She made him want more than war and death. She gave him peace. He hoped it would remain that way.

He broke the connection with her and set down the goblet, the brass clinking on the clay. His hand brushed the silk material of the dress Briseis had worn. It was stunning, a piece that made her look like a goddess. He had handled it with care over the night, expertly removing it then laying it too the side where it was untouched. He lightly picked it up by the straps and held it out to her, cradling it as if were breakable, reliable to shatter at any second. With a scowl, she dressed, tossing the blanket away.

As she dressed, snatching the cloak from the ground, he peaked out into the camp. It was deserted, quiet in the early morning. Men's snores could be heard like bird songs in the dawn, molding together in a blended chorus. The steam from distinguished fires rose into the air, the white standing out against the painted pink, yellow, blue and red sky. Achilles held the flaps open for her.

She held his arm. "I hate this." she confessed.

He kissed her, caressing her cheek, and brushed a lock of hair away from her eyes. "Briseis, you vow to me now that if anything happens in the future, if Troy were to fall, that you will get out of that city. That will not wait for me; you'll just run. Can you do that?"

Briseis nodded, mumbling the promise. "Is there something you're not telling me? Achilles, is Agamemnon going to do something to Troy?"

He kissed her forehead. "You keep your word and I'll come for you. I need you to know that I will not leave you to your doom. Never let it be said that I abandon those I love. I need you to know that you and I can be together. We'll survive this and we'll sail away where we can marry and start something new. We'll no longer have to worry about this war."

"What will we do before then?" she asked, her voice desperate for that future, but unsure of the probability of it happening. "We can't run. We can't keep hiding."

"If we cannot have the day, let us have the night." He kissed her for the last time and pushed her lightly out the door, urging her on. "Now go."

He watched her run back behind all the tents, watched her fleeting form until she was no longer visible in his vision. He tilted his head back and stared up at the sky, beyond the clouds and color into the faces of the gods. They were laughing at them, the small soldier pieces on a game board making foolish steps. Achilles knew he would soon be with her again, cradle her safely in his arms, but why did he feel like he just gave away her soul?

XXXX

Briseis wound through the labyrinth, grasping the torch in her hand as she forced through cobwebs and storage, and slipped out into the hallway. The sun was rising higher and higher into the sky, bringing forth another day in war. She hadn't given herself a moment to breathe since she'd run from Achilles' tent; she collapsed against the wall, hand cupped over her pounding heart. She was grateful no one was awake yet, that no one had ventured from his or her rooms. She hated having to sneak around like she did to be with someone she loved, but what other choice did she have? She couldn't actually believe that if she told anyone in her family her secrets that they'd welcome Achilles with open arms and spare his life. It was unrealistic.

She forced herself up, smoothing out her dress and continued on to her room. She was so deep in thought, a smile on her lips as she remembered more of the details of the night, that she didn't hear the slaps of sandals coming towards her. She rounded the corner and collided with another person. Her hands braced herself, shrieking an apology, and looked up at the person.

She was surprised to find Paris. "Paris! What are you doing up so early?"

The curly-haired prince narrowed his eyes at her. "I could ask you the same." he countered. "Where'd you come from?"

"I, uh, the garden. I went for a walk." she choked out.

"That's odd." Paris crossed his arms over his chest. "I just came from there. I didn't see you."

Briseis croaked low in her throat, her eyes widening slightly, and cursed in her mind. He had arrows on his back, strapped over his chest, a lengthy bow in his hand. She stumbled for an explanation, going through every possible excuse her mind bid forth. She wasn't a liar; she didn't have excuses. Well, except for this.

"I went to the _other_ gardens. To the west."

Paris cast her a suspicious look. "Right. Be careful, Briseis, we wouldn't want any of the Greeks to steal you away again."

Paris smiled and Briseis laughed. The man had an odd sense of humor. Paris kissed her cheek and brushed past her, not giving her a last look. Something was itching in the back of her head, scratching at a question that she'd for so long wanted to entitle to Paris, but had been inflicted. Her mind battled over the words, pondering whether it would be appropriate. Finally, she yelled his name.

She heard his sandals cease. Had he stopped? Or just gone into a room? She pushed her fingers against her palm. "Do you love me, cousin?"

There was wind, howling against the archways and clay, then a voice molded in. "Yes."

Briseis spun slowly on her heel. Paris was facing her at the other end of the passage. "Would you want me to be happy?" Paris gave the same reply. "Any way? Even if you disapproved, would my happiness mean more than what you thought? Would you let it go that far?"

"Briseis…I don't understand what you want me to say, nor do I understand where this is coming from, but…yes. You're happiness means a great deal to me, anyone, any way."

Briseis licked her lip, feeling the salt Achilles had left on her lips. How could she be doing this to her family? He confessed her happiness was important to him, so why didn't she believe it was for her? Why couldn't she accept that who she loved was whom she loved? In her stomach, supported by her mind, she was betraying her family, but in her heart she was feeding what she wanted. She excused herself to her room. She found the confinement comforting and stifling, but for now she would have to endure the lonely nights. She didn't know if she could keep this up.

She had to make a choice: her family or Achilles?

XXXX


	3. What Hurts the Most

**Authors Note: **I don't know if anyone knows this or not, but there's this version of the script where Achilles actually asks Briseis to come with him to Larissa (his home) and where he threatens Odysseus when he mentions Briseis. I liked that version a lot better.

XXXX

_I can take a few tears now and then and just let them out  
I'm not afraid to cry every once in a while  
Even though going on with you gone still upsets me  
There are days every now and again I pretend I'm ok  
But that's not what gets me_

What hurts the most  
Was being so close  
And having so much to say  
And watching you walk away  
And never knowing  
What could have been  
And not seeing that loving you  
Is what I was tryin' to do

Rascal Flatts, _What Hurts the Most_

The town square was full with Trojans, men and women collaborated together in a harmonious applause that erupted from every inch of the yard, courted on the edges of the buildings and lean-to shops. A street band played excitedly on the side of a square gap that the townspeople had formed, bouncing their legs in rhythm with the song, nodding their heads to encourage spectators. Hands batted down on the batter skin of the djembe, fingers strung over the lyre, and lips blew into the aulos, the casual instruments escorting the dance in front of them. A group of women in white robes lifted the hems of their dresses and danced in unison, twirling and twisting in a choreographed piece offered for entertainment.

The celebration continued on, flower petals sailing through the light sea breeze before falling into the scene below, smiles plastered on the faces of men and women watching. The ripples of flags and the flickers of torches were almost tangible, like a painting that is nearly so authentic in its color that it feels real. Small children darted into the space in front of the dancers, chasing each other towards the band to listen where they included themselves in the song. The soldiers patrolling the festival cracked grins occasionally, ruffling the heads of the children that tugged on their clothes. One man with a graying beard, clad in gleaming armor, a spear gripped in his palm, declined when one of the dancers took his free hand and asked him to dance with her. He waved his hand, but she persisted. He caved; he tossed his spear to the soldier beside him and was led into the square, circling the woman under his arm. They laughed jubilantly.

Briseis sat on the palace stairs, watching the victory drive into triumph, her hands anxiously dug into the wood of the armrest. Her eyes roved over the view, examining the façade of the pliable soldiers and citizens giving themselves to the offered wine and song. Today was a day of joy, a celebration of their triumph over the Greeks. The Greek ships vanished, the black sails with them, and Agamemnon left few corpses behind in the sand, lifeless and abandoned. _A plague. _The city echoed about what had killed the opponent war force, gossip of surrender and the vengeance of the gods, but little attention was paid to that in this afternoon.

Briseis salivated for the details, but dreaded them in the same. She wanted to know what had brought upon the illness just like any other curious person, but she also feared of hearing those words. She feared that every discussion would bring upon the mention of the mightiest warrior of the war. The almighty Achilles. Had he met his despise and finally fallen into the depths of Hades? Or had the Myrmidons abandoned ship early enough to not be infected? Her ears perked when she walked through the markets, glancing for anything that would distract her from her yearning to go back home, on alert for a slip of conversation. Achilles didn't come up; he was never spoken of.

A sliver of hope rested in Briseis' soul. Maybe he was still alive. Maybe there was a chance.

Paris sighed beside her. She glanced sideways at him, noting his aggravated countenance, but ignored it. He had talked to them about the foolishness of the higher hierarchy when they'd been led to the beaches. A "gift" had been left to the gods. King Priam was advised to keep it; Paris pleaded that the wood horse was burned. His suggestion was dismissed. Towering above the citizens of Troy, the large wooden horse made of burnt ship remnants and such cast down a broad shadow, capturing the neighboring buildings in darkness. The statue of Poseidon wielding his trident, stationed at the temple in one corner of the town square, was paralleled to the model. Poseidon scowled at the horse, his face etched in a deep glower. His clay eyes judged the gift.

"Look at them." Paris ordered to himself. Helen looked at him. "You'd think their prince had never died."

Briseis cast a look to Andromache beside her, cradling Astyanax to her bosom. Her face was hardened, rocking her son in her arms as he sucked on his fingers, leaving no trace of whether she had heard the remark about her late husband. Briseis tried to not pay attention to Paris.

Helen took his hand, her blonde hair sunkissed in the bright day, her eyes tenderly on him. "You're their prince now." she reminded him. "Make your brother proud."

Paris nodded, tucking his chin in woefully. Helen looped her arm in his and rested her head on his shoulder, comforting his mourning soul. Though it had been twelve days since Hector's death, his family still felt the fresh wounds splitting open at every cue, leaving a new scar. Andromache dropped her head to her chest, trying to suppress the sting of tears welling up in her eyes, then hiccuped. Astyanax stared up at his mother, sensing that something had abruptly changed, and released his fingers from his mouth, the skin coated in clinging saliva. His face contorted; he began to cry, the volume of his wails growing with every second he was unattended. His color turned red.

Briseis heard a low sob deflected in Andromache's throat. Her curiosity took her attention. She scooted towards the woman, hand reached out to touch her shoulder. She wanted to provide comfort for the widow, but somehow she didn't know how to approach it. Her conscious still wrestled with idea of Achilles without a winner, beckoning extra rounds to determine where she stood between the man and her family. She wanted solace for Andromache, but didn't think she was the one to give it to her. Her fingers hovered over the mother's trembling back. She grimaced and retracted her hand. Andromache didn't notice her hesitation. She soothed Astyanax, but her voice broke and silent tears spilled out. There was little she could do for her son now.

"Andromache, would you like me to take him?" Briseis asked, knowing it was the least she could do.

Andromache looked over at her, transparent stains on her cheeks, sliding down further over the curves of her chin. "I couldn't ask you to—" she stammered.

"It's all right. I'll take him to the nursery. Maybe he will sleep." Briseis explained, holding her arms out.

Andromache reluctantly agreed and transferred the baby into his cousin's arms. He smiled, halting his wailing's for a moment, and gazed up at her. Briseis' lips drew into a straight line, one that could be interpreted as a hesitated answer or a fake condolence. Maybe if he knew the antics of his cousin, maybe he would not gurgle up at her, blowing spit bubbles over his pink lips. She carefully stood from her seat and stalked into the shadows, her destination in path. The joy below went undisturbed.

Her footsteps rocked her youngest cousin in her arms, the tiny body thumping against her body, giggling. His laughter was soothing to her ears as they made their way to the nursery, slinking up a flight of stairs. They passed the garden, indicating that they had entered the slumbering quarters. She halted for a moment and stared at the blossoming plants and flowers. The place of comfort now held a memory. Here she had sat with Astyanax's mother and fed her a half-truth about her love for a Greek soldier, shrouding the name of the gratifying man.

That had been the last night she had spent with him. Five days ago. It felt like an eternity ago. For that short span she had tossed and turned in her sleep, unable to find a comfortable position, unable to slumber. During the day she dreamed about running back into his arms and at night she thought about pursuing the desire of his lips. Five days wasn't that long, but to a woman denied her lover it can drag on like five hundred days. A second felt like a day and a day felt like a year. When she woke she expected to find him beside her. When she gazed out the window she expected for him to slip his arms around her waist. When she felt ready to give in she expected for him to kiss her forehead, taking her in his arms in a moment of unconventional love.

She talked to Astyanax, swirling her finger in his face. His beady eyes followed her movement with abrupt focus, his slender arms extending fully to grasp the limb. He held her finger forcefully, the tiny sticks moving over her sleek skin in a fixated search. His eyes drooped, sagging downward for a second before lifting then repeating the action. He was fighting the weariness of an exciting day, battling with himself to stay awake. Briseis shifted his weight so she had a better grip on him and held him closer to her.

She began to sing softly to him.

_Hush-a-bye, don't you cry_

_Go to sleep, little boy_

_When you wake you shall have _

_All the pretty little horses_

_Blacks and bays, dapple grays_

_Coach and six white horses_

_Hush-a-bye, don't you cry_

_Go to sleep-y, little baby._

The song ended and he was asleep. She stopped and admired his tranquil face. It'd been awhile since she'd seen someone so at peace with the world. In dreams you cane escape and in dreams anything was possible. Briseis didn't dream any more, and when she did it was never pleasant. It was never anything she could smile about in the morning. She drifted towards the window; it overlooked the desert behind the walls of the city. The ocean loomed on the horizon, inviting souls into the uncertainty of the future. It was beautiful.

Briseis' family had guided her life for as long as she could remember; she'd listened to them and hadn't resisted their control, but when does the time come when its either love or duty? When is that decision due to be made?

XXXX

The interior of the tremendous wooden horse was sweltering; the heat radiated from the several bodies perched inside not helping as the sun bathed through the cracks of the intact pieces. Only small spaces offered momentary shade, but as the sun moved with each hour, the patches shifted. This inconvenience meant that the men would have to move and that meant they had a wider fate of being uncovered. The men suffered in the heat, sweat coating their tan skin, their amour glistening from rising perspiration in the air.

They talked quietly to one another, joking about the faces of the frightened men and women when they awoke in the middle of the night to the death of swords held by the hands of invading Greeks. Their voices were belittled to wind under the music of the day outside the captivity of the trap. If they didn't move, everyone would be fooled. They would never be discovered, not until night fell and the country were in flames. Achilles distanced himself from the chat of the several soldiers, crouched by the head of the horse, admiring the vastness of the empire from a small hole. They had no idea what was to come, no way of seeing the future until it came tumbling down on them tonight. How oblivious fools can be.

He had been imprisoned in the confinement for hours, waiting for the enemies to bring them through the gates of the city that would be burned to the ground in a few hours. When that time came, Odysseus—king of Ithaca—would command the men to dismantle the horse and they would open the doors for the rest of the army to enter. This plan would set off a chain of chaos; no lives would be spared. If you lived, you were lucky, but if you died, then no one would be your rescue. The thought made Achilles' stomach churn, not for those who would not survive the night, but for one Trojan who he would fight to save.

He watched Briseis intently from the hole left open to peak, inspected how she eagerly studied the scene below her from her seat beside the rest of the royalty. She stood out for she was the only one interested in the games, in the song. It seemed to fascinate her. He smiled to himself. Tonight he would be with her; tonight he would hold her in his arms for the first time in five days. He had been reluctant in participating in Odysseus' plan that would ravage Troy, knowing that hundred would be murdered for one man's greed, but whenever he closed his eyes to sleep, her face would appear. He'd joined with only his mind set on one thing: a mission to find her and take her away from bloodshed.

He set his jaw, his hand grazing his lambskin covered sword at his hip, as the male's lips moved, hissing about something that he was unable to obtain. After a second the woman holding the child hunched over, ceasing her broken tears. Briseis moved to soothe her, not touching her form, but keeping her presence open to the woman. Odysseus examined Achilles, dissecting the stance of his body and the angle of his eyes. There wasn't a mistake of whom the warrior was staring at. The two men had been friends for a long time and Odysseus felt he knew things about Achilles that others didn't dare want to know. Yet everyone had been too ignorant to see the real purpose he had consented in coming on the expedition.

The animal had been tamed and he was here to collect his mate.

Slowly, Odysseus stood, grabbing the ropes slung from the wood for support, and steadied himself for a moment. A man with his weapon lain in his lap wiped his brow with a tattered piece of cloth. A couple of them fell silent to watch the king approach the warrior. Cautious of where he stepped, Odysseus maneuvered to Achilles, yielding his steps to the creaks and the rocking. Had anyone else noticed? His hand still gripped around a cutting length of rope, he eased himself down in a squat beside Achilles.

The man didn't acknowledge him. He was still watching. "Do you not remember this is war?" Odysseus inquired.

The golden-halloed demon didn't make a move to answer. Odysseus sighed, his chest pumping upwards, and parted his lips to add, but was stopped. "If you let him in, you know Agamemnon will kill every man, woman, and child in this city. You know that." Achilles looked over at him. "Do you hear their screams at night, King of Ithaca? Do they haunt you as they haunt me?"

"My loyalty is to Ithaca, not to Troy. If this plan works, the war will end in one night, before the sun rises tomorrow morning." He leaned in close, emphasizing the gravity of his words. "Tomorrow your men and my men could be sailing home to their wives. Can you not accept that?" Achilles didn't respond, but kept his lips in a tight seal. "But it isn't Troy you worried about, is it? It's one Trojan. One Trojan girl."

Odysseus heard Achilles inhale, but he didn't hide it. He stood without hesitation, lightly stepping back towards his original spot. Achilles' fear-inspiring voice made him halt in his tracks. "I've always liked you, Odysseus." Achilles' eyes tuned on him. "But if that girl dies because of your plan, you will never see your wife or child again."

Odysseus kept the words on the tip of his tongue concealed, thinking wiser of the sentence. He sank to the ground. Achilles turned back and noted Briseis' seat was empty. She had departed, as had the child. His eyes dropped.

XXXX

**A/N: **Okay, I intended for this chapter to stop mid-way through the invasion, but just putting these two parts together turned out to be over five pages and I'm not going to make you read that much, so I'll pick up with the burning in chapter four. Hope you enjoyed it. Reviews are always needed.

P.S. The fate of Achilles has already been make up in my mind.


	4. You're Not Alone

**Authors Note: **Hey Siyavash, I left it long. I hope you guys like this.

XXXX

_On the day the darkness comes,  
I'll find you,  
Save you,  
Baby._

Tell me,  
Do you really know me?  
Do you really see me?  
When you forget,  
You're not fighting on your own.  
You are not alone.  
When your sky is falling,  
When your pain is calling,  
Don't forget,  
I will take you home,  
You are not alone.

_You're not fighting on your own._

-Nick Lachey, _You're Not Alone_

XXXX

_  
"Let it burn! Let Troy burn! Burn Troy!"_

Red smoke curled into the black abyss, revealing a sharp comparison with the night sky, clouding the clay buildings with a sour tang. The statue of Poseidon, thick rope coiled around his legs and outstretched arms, strangling him, plummeted to the ground of Troy, his shadow spread across the hundreds of men and women below his falling form. They screamed, clutching a child, and ran in every direction. They ran to escape the invading Greeks and ran to save their lives…away from the death that awaited every Trojan. The Greeks yelled and shouted encouragement to their comrades as they took another life, thrusting their blood-encrusted swords into another body. They bodies of naïve women or children, of poor beggars, of shop owners and slaves were strewn over the dust; their remains were leafed through curtly.

The city of Troy was burning…half the city was dead. The gods weren't helping them tonight.

Agamemnon proudly watched the catastrophe, arms extended full length, relishing the sound of hundreds dying by his hands, their pain spearing into him to lend him strength. His victory bowed to him. A group of soldiers ran to a stable on the far end of the city and unlocked the flaming doors, careful not to burn their flesh. A dozen frightened horses galloped madly out of the collapsing shelter. They stampeded through the streets of Troy, people shoving themselves out of their way. The heat of the buildings crawled on perspiring flesh, just the mere lick of a nearby flame blistering bodies. They were in an ocean of fire and the gods watched with an amused smirk.

Briseis fought against the throng of people fleeing, tuning out their cries, wincing as they shoved against her numb limbs. She had lost feeling in her arms, the revival of creation futile after being pounded accidentally into so many times. All the people—visitors, assistants, priests, royal advisors, etc—ran in the opposite direction of her, pushing her back a step occasionally. She inhaled the brief pain and kept going. She dashed towards the bedchambers. Maybe they would be there. She prayed they were not dead, that they were searching for her as well and had not abandoned her in the graveyard.

She glanced at every face that passed her, every woman with blonde, every man with short brown locks, but they were no where. She stopped, her chest heaving as desperation threaded through her veins. She couldn't find them, she couldn't find them. Was she alone? Had they really left her or was she just as lost to them as they were to her? She whirled around, trying to grasp the attention of an evanescent man coming at her. He whizzed directly past her without acknowledgement. Oh…

"Paris! Andromache!" she yelled urgently.

She was left in the hall suddenly, deserted in the stone passageway. The window across from her displayed a portrait of destruction. She tried to ignore the screams, the yelps of children as they were yanked from their mothers, the crackling as the fire engulfed another home and another helpless family. She grasped her head, nausea overcoming her; she couldn't take this any longer. This was all too much. Why was this happening? Why had the gods not prevented this?

Was this her punishment? Were hundreds of people dying for her mistake? Were souls being transferred to Zeus and Hades for loving a man that was mortally immortal and not a god? They all cried out in unison: _Briseis, what have you done?_

XXXX

"Briseis!"

Achilles spun on his heel, turning in a tight circle to survey the panic that surrounded him. The walls of the palace were now nothing more than scattered remnants, broken clay, and the beggings of people whom would never hear a miracle. The dreariness overtook his mind; his own impetuousness invaded the core of his body. She was no where to be found. He'd scoured the entire palace and still was without her.

Sweat glistened off his body, entangling in his gold stands, soaking the hair, causing the sword in his hand to grow slippery in his firm hand. He yelled her name again. A brunette ran past him; he grabbed her arm at the last second. She gasped, shielding her body instinctively from the attacking Myrmidon, but her false identity relinquished her freedom back to her. She proceeded on, her sandals clomping down the steps to the lower level. Achilles grabbed handfuls of hair in both hands and squeezed, his frustration washing out in a wave.

He didn't care about his life any more. He'd climbed out of that horse with only one clear mission; to find Briseis and take her far away from this place surrendered to barbarians. There was a side to each of the two coins tossed on his fate. One coin reminded him of her vow and that perhaps he could not locate her because she had listened to him and had gotten away before destiny dealt her a heavy hand. The other coin, branded with the Satanic "S," construed that she had met the Angel of Death and no longer breathed. He cursed the latter, prayed that he would see her again.

For the first time, he was afraid.

XXXX

Briseis hurried down another passage, her feet carrying further and further now that they were freed from the restriction of her dress. Fabric bunched between her fingers, she passed the last person in the hall, but frantically continued. She was on a hunt to find the tunnel, the dreams of finding her family now disintegrated in the flames, except the route had fleeted her. She drew a blank canvas over a morbidly painted death. She was running in the direction from memory, but her mind had failed her. The end of the corridor was enveloped in flames and the red disease infected slowly towards her, catching on the tapestries.

A woman wearing a white robe, identical to those she used to wear when she had been a priestess to Apollo, appeared around a corner. She didn't notice Briseis; she kept going without a look back. The princess watched her go for a moment and turned back to her destination only to be greeted by a white stallion rampaging his way to her. The horse neighed in warning, but did not cease his pace. Briseis instinctively scurried backward, her weight shifting on her feet that hastily moved her back. Just as the creature nearly drug her to her demise, she sidestepped him and collapsed behind a pillar. Her breath caught in her throat.

The hoof beats of the horse faded after a moment and she was left with nothing but a faint remembrance of the tragedy outside the palace walls. Her body sunk to the floor, her feet falling out from underneath her; she crouched there, head hung between her legs.

The heat of everything wound on her skin, draining her of the energy she needed to progress further. But that energy and that drive to escape was gone. She'd thought she could get out, had assumed she may have a choice without the protection of her family, without Achilles, but her mind told her that the hope now was diminished. Her life was crumbling and she considered letting it take her with it. Her fingers wove up her body; she fingered the seashells wound on her neck. She closed her eyes, letting her soul slip out of her body in a levitating stunt that showed her the shriveled form on the floor, the woman that gave up. She spat on her.

No.

But how could she let herself think that? She had a chance, didn't she? This wasn't over; not when there was still a slender chance that she could survive this. Achilles' image flashed across her mind. She gasped. The vow, how could she have forgotten? She'd promised him, she'd told him she would get out and help herself. She couldn't break that, couldn't destroy the one last moment she had to fulfill. What if that could bring her back to him? Wasn't that worth a shot just to see his face again? To feel the relief when he was alive? He was, for now…she could feel it. He was somewhere in the city; she just had to get to him.

She glanced over and saw the fire advancing on its prey. She was its prey, its fuel to spread further. _Get up, _she commanded herself. Grimacing, she held the pillar for support and stood on shaky legs. She slipped away, back down the corridor to her life. To Achilles. Get out, she chanted repeatedly, the drawl of Achilles' request reminding her. Every step prompted her survival, her success.

She ducked down a narrow stairwell, handing her on one floor to a lower one. The hall was dark when she came upon it, ashes and gray smoke drifting in the air, swirling in tornadoes around. The hall had already been tainted by fire and had been left standing. Piles of ash lay everywhere, orderly stacks in random places. People had died here; she couldn't let herself think about them. Not now. She rounded a corner quickly. Then, a faint glow. A bouncing orange light. She smiled. Someone was here and maybe they would help her.

The light grew and with it unrecognizable voices, their militaristic stomping in rhythm with their hollers. Briseis stopped, curiosity invaded her. Her uncertain steps made the dust and ash stir, cautious of the figures coming for her. The fire from outside stained her face, the color of blood, disguising most of her body, she waited. Then, the shadows appeared; it displayed a horde of men. Greek soldiers, her mind screamed. They were doing a hostile sweep of the palace, looking for strays.

The voices grew louder and the light closer. She slid into a room, careful so the door wouldn't creak and give her away, and waited. Her hand remained poised on the doorknob, her ear pressed to the wood. She listened to their words, their mocking jokes about the weakness of the Trojan people, but kept silent. After a minute, they were a harmless echo.

Briseis sighed heavily and leaned on the door, her hand traveling up the sanded block for comfort. Her fingers traced a pattern engraved in the wood. She halted and looked at it. It was the familiar symbol of Troy. She looked behind her and inhaled sharply. This was her uncle's sleep quarter. She hadn't even thought of him. An elder man, she'd forgotten his memory. She gulped, ashamed. The room was untouched, still intact and vivid, but the vibrancy had died some. It didn't have the same feel it once had. Tentatively, she stalked across the room to the balcony. She studied the city below her. The fires had only seemed to be fed, larger now in a tremendous tyrant. The citizens of Troy were few, stray members running in an incredulous daze. Their recollection was scarred. Briseis' eyes found a hunched figure below the balcony, directly at the back gate. She leaned in. Her lips parted. It was a woman, probably in her oldest years, tucked in a kneel, praying. Briseis knew she was praying for a lost cause.

If help wasn't coming now, it never was.

"Briseis!"

Briseis whirled around, hearing her name called in the distance. It reverberated in the corridor, repeating once more, before dying away. She blinked several times, craning for the voice to call to her again. But it didn't. Had she been dreaming? Surely all the chemicals in the air had intoxicated her and she was becoming ill. She was just dreaming, fantasizing about a savior in a time of peril.

"Briseis!"

She sucked in a breath. She knew that voice. Achilles! He'd found her, but how? How had he known? She shook her head, beckoning the thoughts away, and called to him in return. He batted back a questioning shout, which she replied immediately. A second later, the door was kicked open. Her hero stood frozen at the door, the dust swirling around him, creeping up. Her eyes welled with tears. Achilles stepped into the room, his sword clattering to the ground, and embraced her in a passionate kiss. She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, playing with his hair, and melted into the kiss. The crumbling walls of the world fell away from them in those seconds they stayed locked in the kiss.

He drew back, cupping her face in his hand, and stared her in the eye. His ragged breath met her lips. "What are you still doing here? You're not safe."

She shook her head, unsure of how to explain herself. She could have said she was trying to get out, but that would have been a lie. In that second when she had watched the praying woman, the flicker of hope had been blown out. She couldn't lie to him. She hugged him tightly. "I didn't think I was ever going to see you again."

"I've been looking for you everywhere." Achilles confessed.

"I'm sorry." Briseis sniffed. "I just couldn't…"

She trailed off, unable to admit to him that a part of her didn't want to live if she could never see him again. He saw her falter and kissed her lightly, his thumb stroking her smooth cheek. A tear slid down, flattening on his thumb before trailing down his nail. It was a raindrop that splattered on the ground.

She gazed up at him, her heart breaking. What if they didn't make it out? "Don't ask me grieve for you."

Achilles nodded, agreeing with her. He wouldn't make her. They gazed at one another, oblivious to the rest of the world. He looked down and grazed his hand over the shell necklace that adorned her neck. She followed his movement, her head titled in a descent. He followed his hands, slowly inching over the silk shells and over her skin. His hand ventured up and clasped on her neck, keeping her locked near him. She smiled to herself and leaned in towards him. Their lips met.

"What treason is this?"

They both ripped from the kiss. The couple was chiseled into statues at the four words that rung like a gunshot in the silence. Paris, his curls matted against the sides of his face, an arrow draped behind his back, sword clenched in his hand, stood in the doorway. His eyes glowered at the couple caught in the headlights, captive in a lover's hold. There was no turning away from this and there was no changing this. They were caught and it was about time. Paris seethed under his breath, hissing that he has been betrayal. He has found his beloved cousin with his brother's murderer. Angrily, he stalked forward, hands gripped in fist.

His mate instincts kicking in, Achilles lightly pushed Briseis behind him. "If you touch her…" he warned the prince now fused into darkness.

"Briseis, stand away from him." Briseis didn't oblige. "Now!"

"No." Briseis refused weakly. Testing her limits, she grabbed Achilles' arm. "I will not."

"How could you do this, cousin? This…man killed Hector and you dare choose his side. Hector would be so furious with you." Paris interjected.

"I am not choosing sides." Briseis exclaimed, moving out from behind Achilles' protective shield and firmly standing beside him. "Paris—"

"No. I do not want to hear another word. You have betrayed your country, Briseis. Tainted by a murderer."

"You don't know anything about him! You can't say that!" Briseis spat back. Achilles stood behind her, proudly watching her fight her battle. He smiled.

Paris noticed. "What are you smiling about? You have poisoned her. I should kill you!"

As the last word bellowed from Paris' lip, he swung his sword. Achilles pushed Briseis out of line of the sword and dropped to the ground. Paris' sword crashed down on the ground to empty space. He spun around in time to see Achilles roll on the ground and easily pick up his sword then jump up. Legs bent, body low to the ground, he waited for Paris' to pursue him. The young prince moved again, this time charging him, but Achilles blocked the blow, thus locked their dance until he overpowered Paris. He shoved him back; Paris stumbled over his feet.

The fury in Achilles rose to its pressured point. Everything came to the surface. He knew he would fight to be with Briseis, but how far was he willing to take it? He advanced on Paris, taunting the new prince as he had done his brother when he'd tripped on the rock. His strides were bold and confident, long legs extending to cover full ground. He didn't ever wear down. He ignored Briseis' screams to stop. Paris, relentless in his quest to retrieve his cousin, moved back in, continuing the fight. They fought their battle while the city burned.

Briseis pulled on her hair, irritated with the conflict between the two men. She yelled, but neither heard. "Stop! Please stop! You two want to fight about this now? We'll all perish! Stop!"

She darted to Paris, finally at the end of her rope. How could they fight during this time? And over her, nonetheless. Why couldn't Paris just accept the fact that she wanted to be with Achilles and let her go her own way? It would be simpler, but the man had to do everything the difficult way. She tugged on his arm, pleading with him to stop, but—caught in the heat of the fight—he grabbed her by the throat and tossed her away. The sneer on his face, his eyes blazing, didn't falter. She landed on the ground, her fragile form thrown like a doll without breaking.

"Briseis." Achilles said, momentarily distracted by the action.

Paris took advantage of this halt nearly immediately. He kicked in Achilles' knees and disarmed the man. He dropped to his knees, out of weapons and out of ideas, and stared up at Paris. His eyes were calm, his breath regulated. Silently, the assassin egged the avenger on, proclaiming it was all right. Nothing fazed him, not even as the tip of Paris' sword touched his neck, pinned at his Adam's Apple. Paris scowled. Suddenly, the sword was batted and Briseis threw herself onto Achilles. Tears stained on her cheeks, her voice broke as she pleaded with Paris once again.

"Don't kill him, please. Don't."

"How can you defend this man?" Paris hissed. "He killed Hector!"

"Forgiveness." Briseis informed him simply. "Please, taking his life will not settle yours. It won't take away the sorrow of losing your brother." She paused. "My happiness, remember? Paris, let him live."

As she spoke, Achilles crept his hand up slowly, slivering around her right side so it was unseen by Paris, and cradled Briseis' hand. His touch was comforting and caused an overwhelming calm to circuit through her system. She sighed, closing her eyes. She glanced over at him, welcoming the tender touch. She gazed at him with adoration, her lips trembling. She couldn't lose him.

"You love him?" Paris questioned her, noticing the exchange between them. This was what his father had mentioned and he was right. Briseis looked at Achilles differently.

"Yes. I do." Briseis answered without looking away from the face of a warrior. She waited for his reaction, but he remained stone-faced. Had she said the wrong thing?

"And you believe he cares for you? Quit being selfish."

"Would I have saved her if I didn't care for her?" Achilles piped in, flickering away from Briseis for a second. "Come on, young prince, murder the only life your cousin has left."

"I should. You stole my brother then had the bravado to rob your beloved of her kin. I should end your life now."

"Then don't hesitate."

Paris pushed the tip of the sword harder against Achilles' neck, confirming that he very much would, then he drew back the weapon. "But I will not."

Briseis exhaled heavily. The couple stood and embraced happily, incredulous that they've been given a second chance to be together. Achilles held her small waist tightly, taking in the aroma of her hair. He whispered in her ear. She squeezed her lips together, closing her eyes as a tear leaked.

"You two have to get out. Troy is burning." Paris said.

"How?" Achilles asked. "Agamemnon surely has soldiers at every door, probably searching for left-overs. We'll never make it out."

Briseis remembered a path, a way out. She grasped Achilles' arm. He stopped mid-sentence. "The tunnel." she dawned. "How I snuck out to see you."

Paris' eyes widened. He choked. She snuck out? For how long? He couldn't have heard that correctly, could he? "Briseis, tell me you didn't." he begged.

They were suddenly interrupted by the yelling of over-zealous soldiers trooping down the hall. Achilles knew instantly what was happening; Agamemnon had ordered a raid of the palace. He wasn't going to let them know that he was withholding two royalties.

He laced his fingers in Briseis' and tugged her forward. "Come on. We must go."

Briseis went with him, waiting patiently as he checked the hall. He held the door open for her. Paris was reluctant. He hadn't moved. "Paris, please…" she beckoned desperately.

XXXX

**A/N: **It's nearly one in the morning. I'm going to sleep. Okay, so I did not kill Achilles, which I'm sure most of you are happy with. Now comes the difficult task of deciding where the story will end. I have a plan for the next chapter, but after that I'm leaving it to you. So, here's an open invitation to tell me what you would want to happen next. And let's be creative; the bit where Briseis becomes pregnant and Achilles takes her back to his home has been used a many number of times. So, tell me what you think.


	5. Execution

**Authors Note: **Hey, sorry for the delayed update. I've come across a point where some of the readers would like me to continue further than what was originally planned, so I had to devise a completely new plan. So, this is the new summary, an addition to the previous.

**Summary: **Achilles is the greatest warrior the world has ever seen, untouched by such occurrences like love. Briseis is the Trojan princess that has given herself to Apollo in devotion. When these two met in the infamous war that launched a thousand ships, their betrayal of their countries was lost in the nights they stayed locked in one another's embraces. One kingdom pitted against the other, the rivaling city burns. Running for the vow that she made to Achilles, Briseis flees into the arms of her savior. Will they escape Troy? If so, how can they insure their safety?

**P.S. **I'm leaving for Miami on Monday, so I'll be gone for a week. I'm going to try to get you guys another chapter by Sunday night so I don't leave you completely hanging.

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The world ended with a scream.

The cries echoed through the burnt shells of Troy, the anguish of dead souls trapped in an alternative chaos that they could not escape from. They staggered through the ruins in a daze; arms extended as their guide for their eyes had been cut out by the Greeks, now rendered blind in the underworld. The flames of destruction still blazed, climbing higher into the black, passed the golden gates of Mt. Olympus into the kingdom of the slumbering gods. They slept, ignorant of the suffering of the charges they swore to protect. How could any victim trust the gods now? They had been abandoned in peril with no line of protection drawn.

Troy had always been ruled by the notion that freedom and peace were the necessities of life, but now the city was plagued with nothing but war. The city was a battlefield. The streets were lined with packs of invading soldiers, traipsing through the barren alleys and markets, pillaging through the rubble for loitering Trojans. Black ashes of the souls they had claimed stained their faces, blood imprinted on their blades. Their sandals sunk into red pools as they crossed a field of corpses. The city had been painted red and black rocks clumped the pavement.

Small bands of citizens or remnants of broken families crouched in the shadows, hidden between collapsed building pieces that devised a sort of crevice. Their palms were faced together in prayer, eyes closed, lips quivering as they ushered the pleas. They wished to be saved. Yet the cold, merciless eyes of a soldier discovered their cowering forms and they were yanked by their hair from their closure. The women and children grasped the wrists of the Greeks, struggling to be released from the firm grip, then they were silenced. Kicked to their knees, the children and youngest women were sparred.

The night had ended the murders. But the executions had just begun.

Agamemnon stood in the center of his pride of lions, framed by their bellicose bodies, and encouraged the savages on. Every man was ordered to be killed, executed before the eyes of their neighbors. Any woman or child that interfered would suffer the same fate. The King of Kings brushed his red mane and watched with a smirk as small groups assembled across the dead city. He breathed in the screams; their souls were his.

Briseis crouched around a corner, his fingers dug into the stone of the other wall, and watched the heinous acts. Her face was hidden in the shadows, unrecognizable to the assassins who held a man at the tip of their swords, sneering in the crusade. The man kneeled to the men, his hands formed in mercy, begging that they spare his life and the life of his wife. The woman to the side held the soldier's arm that held her hostage, tears freely falling down her wet cheeks, staring with unflinching loyalty at her husband who grabbled at the feet of the enemy. Trojans had once been proud people, but this war had turned their loyalties. The line between right and wrong had blurred in the last few hours.

The brunette woman felt her eyes water as the soldiers laughed in the man's face, nudging each other, and lifted their sword. The metal came down in one swift motion, the eerie slice of flesh causing Briseis' stomach to churn. The man's head rolled to the stone; his body slumped to the ground. The woman screamed, collapsing, her hands cupped over her lips. Briseis gasped, the breath torn from her lungs, her eyes closing immediately to protect her from the image of another dead person that would haunt her dreams, and looked away. Her hand instinctively grabbed the person beside her, clenching the man's arm so tightly that her knuckles began to lose color.

Paris kept his eyes focused on the sight before him. He wanted to look away, but each attempt failed like the other and he found himself unable to. The Greeks dragged the woman unwillingly away by her arms, overpowering the fighting widow whose screeches pierced the air. She wailed for her husband and for the loss of her home. Paris shook his head and turned to Briseis. His cousin, ridden of her frailty since the dawn of the war, buried her face in his arm, biting back tears that threatened to fall. The prince didn't understand. Wasn't his duty in Troy to protect his people? With Hector gone they looked upon him to protect them. Yet here he was, hiding in his own home from the men that had stolen the kingdom from his family. He couldn't protect his people and now he couldn't find the strength to comfort his cousin.

His kin fell back on her heels, the dust rising around her in a transparent cloud as she landed with a thud beside Paris. The blue midnight brought her peace, allowed her to shy away from the massacre that awaited their eyes outside. In the blue she was safe…but only for a while. She drew her knees to her chest and locked her arms around her legs, hugging them close to her chest in a fetal position. She wanted to be small, she wanted to be transported out of this hell, and she wanted to be permanently safe. She tipped her head back so her skull touched the stone and inhaled.

The images of the killings flashed across her mind every time she closed her eyes. There wasn't an escape, not a loophole that would free her from these. She would be haunted, cursed for her decision to love one man, blamed for what she laid on this city. Her eyelid fluttered open and her dark eyes found the form across from her, descended deeper in the hall, balanced on his the ball of his foot. His hair was a curtain over his face, closed over the stage to disguise any flicker of emotion that he could display from hearing the murder, and his hands rested helplessly over the edge of his knee bone.

"How could you let them do this?" she asked him harshly.

Achilles slowly turned his head, his sight trained on her shriveled form. She wished to know, but he didn't want to tell her the reason he allowed such events to happen in his presence. Even when he had the power to end it, he didn't. Her forgiveness meant something, and that would disappear if he told her the truth.

"What would have me do?" he retorted.

"Anything—"

"They outnumber me. Thousands to one."

"I think you're a coward." Paris muttered, rolling his head to the side to face the Greek warrior.

"You think that of me now, but I have gotten you this far." Achilles argued.

"You came in with the others with only the aspiration of destroying us."

"I had _one_ mission, yes." Achilles' eyes fell on Briseis. "And I have succeeded in the task."

A silence clung to them for a moment. The chaos rested against their eardrums. Briseis stood, testing her weakening legs, and steadied herself. Her fingers glided across the stone, dipping in the small ridges between bricks, feeling her way to her warrior in the darkness. She stood in front of Achilles and held out her hand to him in offering. He slipped his hand in hers and climbed to his feet, snatching up his sword from the ground beside him. They paused for a moment; a silent recognition passed between them.

_Would you leave all this behind? Would you leave Troy?_

Both of them had been taught that different things were the most important things in life. Achilles was born to be a warrior, the mightiest of them all that had a title of ending lives. For that men either revered him or feared him. It always depended on how he judged you. Briseis had been risen with the notion that your country, the gods, and your family were to be honored without interruption. Two completely different viewpoints and two hearts that said the same thing. Briseis fantasized about leaving Troy and traveling elsewhere, about leading a life where she and Achilles wouldn't be criticized for their feelings, about the happiness that waited outside the gate.

Then again, Achilles had not promised that good things would come. He knew the mind of Agamemnon and many of the other kings. If he were sighted with royalties then it would be assumed that he had been captured or that he was assisting their escape. It would not be pleasant. They would be hunted, as fugitives, as criminals, and killed for treachery. It didn't care what became of Paris or the other Trojans that had gotten away early enough to be unharmed; he had come for Briseis and had succeeded. He only cared that she lived. If she was captured, the easiest form of punishment would be death, but her fortune would likely betray her. She would be taken to Agamemnon's tent and laid to work as a slave, scrubbing his floors in the day and bedding with him in the night. He would rather die than see her treated as so.

Achilles leaned in and deposited a kiss on her forehead in reassurance that they would survive this night. Briseis wasn't sure what to believe any longer because all she thought she had known had been proven false. Yet she chose to believe Achilles; he was the only thing guiding her life now. She knew he would fight for her and protect her from danger, but did she really need him to? She brushed the questioning aside and laced her fingers in his, feeling the prickles of dirt that covered his hands.

They took a step from each other and continued on their journey. Paris, still in the darkness, watched in amazement as Briseis left with this man. The man who killed his brother, the man that was prophesied to end lives, the man that was a cold-hearted killer. Could that be compared as the same man that kissed his cousin with such loving tenderness? The man that shown love in his eyes when he watched the young brunette? Paris shook his head, dislodging the assumptions and suspicions. He clamored after the pair and easily fell in step behind them.

Their meticulous pace sidestepped the path of throngs of soldiers, intently listening to the range and proximity of voices and the vibrations of footsteps. Paris remained behind the lovers the whole time, his hand prepared at the handle of his sword, glaring at Achilles. The Greek possessively held Briseis' hand, always keeping to her right, showing a considerate side to him. Paris examined the man and his actions with his cousin. He had assumed that Achilles would force them to keep to his speed, but, instead, he would only push Briseis when she had the strength. If she faltered, he would slow their running and allow her time to catch her breath. Multiple times they came upon corpses, their flesh burnt to the point where the bones were unrecognizable. Achilles shifted to Briseis' left and shielded her from the sight, holding her shoulders as he directed her away from the body. The man was protective and that astounded Paris.

They jogged down a long corridor, succumbed to the darkness, no sound finding them except for the pattering of their feet on the ground as they ran. A small block of grayish light bounced in the distance, enhancing wider and wider as they neared it. Paris focused on the partial outline of the two in front of him and kept his body in control. If he allowed himself to think about his strength then his body would shut down in realization that he had little agility left.

Achilles suddenly slowed as they reached the exit of the corridor. He pulled Briseis to him, disabling her from bursting out of the darkness and giving off their location. If there were Greeks in that courtyard then they would be forced to wait for them to depart before they could continue. He turned to Briseis, unable to see anything of her except for the glow of her pools. "How much further?"

She squirmed in his arms. "Just across the courtyard. Down a stairwell. We're close." she explained, her voice low.

Achilles ground his teeth, the impatience wearing into him. He just wanted to abscond to the hills. He wanted to get Briseis out. They'd only be safe for a certain amount of time, but those several hours would give them time to get to Greeks ships or at least somewhere where they would be undisturbed. His hand braced on Briseis' arm, he peaked around the corner into the courtyard. The space, a square with an open ceiling and pottery surrounding the perimeter, was an execution podium. Two soldiers talked to one another, their swords limply swinging at their sides, oblivious to the eyes surveying them. Odysseus was with them, leaned against a pillar in the corner.

Briseis pushed past Achilles. Her head bobbed in thin air, her brown curls draped over the side, tattered hands balanced on the floor. Achilles crouched down to her level, towering over her form from behind her. His sword scraped the brick floor. Paris backed into the opposite wall, maneuvering his body so it remained hidden in the shadows. None of the Greeks had noticed. The trio waited patiently, studying the group's movements, quivering in their positions. What were the men waiting for?

The pondering came to an abrupt end as a shrill cry reverberated against the pillars. A nefarious laugh trailed, announcing the devil and his soul with a cut chord. A man appeared from a stairwell, a spear cradled in one hand and a squirming woman in another. The woman was older, her robes clung to her slender figure from the sweat drenching her skin, her long blonde hair flailing wildly as she struggled to free herself from the enemies hold. A small boy at the tender age of seven ran after them, tears spilling down his cheeks, his arms outstretched in front of him. He shrieked for his mother. The woman's son hadn't abandoned her and gotten out of Troy in time; unfortunately, it was too late for them. The soldier was shoved forward; she stumbled over her dress and fell in a heap at Odysseus' feet, her hands reaching out to brass her tumble. The young boy was captured before he could dart for his mother.

"Look what I found. A servant of the royal family." the soldier sneered.

Briseis' hand flew up; cupping her lips as tears sprang in her eyes. Her breathing gradually regulated into short gasps for air. Her eyes quivered. She uttered the woman's name under her breath. She knew the woman. An assistant in the palace, she had become somewhat of a surrogate mother to Briseis. She couldn't watch her die, not for something she or anyone else in her family did. She had to save her. She jumped out of her spot, lurching her body forward to enter the courtyard.

Achilles yanked her back before she could unveil herself. He clutched her to his chest, propping his chin on her shoulder. "What are you doing?" he questioned curtly.

"Let me go. Let me go!" Briseis commanded, her voice breaking as she tried to wrench of Achilles' hold, but was prevented from it. "I can't let her die."

Achilles cupped her face with one hand. "They'll kill you."

Briseis stared at him. Did he not understand? This was someone she loved, a woman she respected, and she wasn't going to watch her die. Especially not in front of her son, the little boy that brought the light into her eyes and the smile to her face. She wanted to spit back at Achilles that she would willingly die to protect her people, but something held her back. She stopped squirming and stared at him. His face silently pleaded for her not to go, to not risk her life when they were just beginning, and she listened.

The weight of a thousand lives dropped on her shoulders, dragging her down into the place she believed she deserved to be now. Where did her loyalties lie? Had being with Achilles changed them? Before she met she only cared for the people of Troy, those she was meant to help, but now she gave in with one look from the halloed demon. Did her loyalties now rest solely on him? She couldn't have done that, wouldn't have…yet she seemed to have. She'd switched her loyalties, had switched her heart.

Paris stared at the couple, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Why had she stopped? He bowed his head and looked back to the scene. If it were not prevented then that woman would perish. Cassandra would die. She was pulled to a kneeling position, her head forced up, the figures of the men swarming around her. Odysseus loomed in the distance, a hand on the boy's shoulder, monitoring the situation. One of them men, steadied beside Cassandra, hovered the tip of his sword over Cassandra's neck, the slick edge touching her skin briefly. Paris growled. If Achilles was going to do nothing to halt the execution, then he would.

He rose suddenly and bolted into the courtyard, poising his bow in the perfect targeting angle. Briseis and Achilles gawked at him, her eyes bulged as her cousin's foolishness. She scrambled to join him, but Achilles blocked her. A part of him wanted to see what the young prince could do. Every head turned to the trespassing man, his name screeched from Odysseus. The executioner, hissing profanity under his breath, advanced towards Paris. Paris drew out an arrow from the container behind his back and fired the arrow. It embedded in the man's chest, striking directly into his heart. The man fell on his stomach, grimacing in his final moment.

Paris' face fell instantly. The two others, stepping over their fallen comrade, stalked to him, swinging their blades mercilessly. He gulped. One thrust his sword in the air; it connected with Paris' arm. The prince cried out in pain. Odysseus watched the unfair fight with a grin. Cassandra, released from Death's hands, beckoned her son forth. Odysseus let the boy go, uninterested in the trials of death. The boy flew into his mother's arms. Briseis whirled around to Achilles; the man's focus was concentrated on the fight.

"You have to help him. Please, he's my cousin. Please." Briseis pleaded, tears leaking down her cheeks. "They'll kill him!"

Achilles groaned, rolling his eyes, and drew his sword. He ran out of the hiding and entered the battlefield. "Achilles!" Odysseus yelped upon seeing his friend's arrival. Perhaps he would assist his fellow Greeks in the murder of the royal family. Odysseus' grin broadened; this would be utterly more entertaining that he imagined.

As an arrow collided the soldier closest to Paris, causing him to pause long enough to yank it out, Achilles swung his sword at the other man. The blade cut across the man's throat, ripping the skin right open, the blood splattering over his armor. The man fell backwards. Achilles whipped around and drove his sword into the other soldier's back. Odysseus' grin faded as he saw this killing. Achilles had slain his own men, his fellow comrades. They were a pile of blood on the ground, dead from their one of their own hands.

Achilles was a betrayer.

Achilles' sensed Odysseus' movement and pushed his sword against his friend's chest, stopping him immediately. The scruffy king pulled his hand away from his hand and stared at him. Achilles sneered, his teeth pressed together in an animalistic growl.

"Achilles." Odysseus muttered.

As the words spilled from his lips, Briseis crept out and maneuvered around the men, wincing at the sight of the corpses. She squatted down beside Cassandra and her son and gently placed her hand on the small of the boy's back. Cassandra stroked her matted hair, saying her name tenderly. The words were inaudible to Achilles, who strained to watch her and Odysseus at the same time. The clacking of sandals slapping brick echoed a moment later; they were all left alone. Briseis slowly stood, eyeing the man she had once trusted. Could he be trusted now? He had killed her people. That was unforgivable.

Odysseus' eyes found her. He understood. _Women have a way of complicating things._

He flickered to Achilles. "One Trojan girl." he hissed.

"Don't." Achilles replied.

Abruptly, he dropped his sword. Odysseus was saved. Achilles grabbed Briseis' arm and drug her out of the courtyard, hastening her into a light jog into the nearest passage. Paris, holding his wounded limb, followed, eyeing Odysseus with caution. The older man stared after them. It was true, all the rumors and the gossip that swirled around the camp. They had neither been confirmed nor denied by Achilles. The man, the most ruthless warlord, fell in love with a Trojan. He betrayed Greece and everyone in it. He would burn for treason.

Briseis led the way further down the passage, unaware of Paris' mortal wound until he hissed and slumped against the wall. Briseis stopped, whirling around, and darted to Paris. Achilles stood over them as Briseis tucked her legs underneath her to tend to Paris. Her cousin grimaced, a sharp groan rolling out of his throat, and pressed his hand to the wound.

"Paris, remove your hand." Briseis instructed gently.

Reluctantly, Paris obeyed. Briseis tilted her head and drew closer. Blood dribbled down his arm from the jagged slice in his arm, veins spreading in various places on the flesh surrounding the injury. It freely bled. Briseis took a handful of her dress and ripped a piece of cloth off. She sighed, keeping a retort on her tongue, and laced the cloth under his arm.

"You shouldn't have just run out like that. You could have been killed." she said.

"They were going to kill her. Then her son." Paris responded.

Briseis didn't reply instantly. She hesitated, drawing the ends of the cloth up to level them. "Not all of them are bad." She muttered. She scrunched her face; the musty smell of the corridor was overwhelming.

"Excuse me?" Paris questioned.

"They're not all bad. I've spent time with these men. Some of them can be good people. Some of them are respectable men who want nothing to do with this war."

"Briseis, they kill people!"

Briseis stopped, the words thrusting onto her violently. How could he use that as an excuse? "And how many have you? You kill. Hector killed hundreds of men. Your father killed. How many wives are now waiting for husbands they'll never see again?" She crossed the ends and yanked forcefully then tied it together, tightly concealing the wound to cease the bleeding. "Do not judge fifty-thousand men by one king."

The words clung to the air for a moment. Briseis shot up and brushed past Achilles. He let her pass, watching her descend into the darkness. Paris stared at his hands. "Did you put her up to that? Have you tainted her thoughts with these thoughts?"

"Those words she speaks are not mine. She feels them strongly and I will not be the one to tell her she is wrong. Because she is not." Achilles stated.

Achilles left Paris. He chased after Briseis, calling her name softly as he ran blindly. He heard footsteps behind him; Paris was following. After a good distance, he began to worry. Where was she? If she had heard him, she would have responded. Why wasn't she now? Oh, if she had been taken. Anger rose in him at the thought of her being kidnapped. Then, a figure. The silhouette swayed in the distance, reaching out to balance itself. Achilles quickened his pace, then slowed. He snuck up behind the figure, quiet as not to startle the person. A scent filtered his senses. It was Briseis. He looped his arm around her waist, locking his arms, and grasped her to him.

"What is it?" he whispered, noting her stiff composure.

Without a word said to the night, her arm extended and her finger expanded. She pointed to the light. "It's guarded."

Paris' footsteps ceased. His body heat radiated. Achilles heard his pants, but his surprise was pinpointed on something else. Across from the passage was their escape. Two guards stood at the entrance. They weren't getting out.

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**A/N: **Wow, this is long. It feels a little different than the other chapters, so tell me what you think. Thanks.


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